


Quartet: Border Crossings

by ayatsujik



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 07:27:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11869461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayatsujik/pseuds/ayatsujik
Summary: Home, he knew, was in many places.Linked vignettes from Yuri's (18) and Otabek's (20-going-on-21) summer travels to Kazakhstan, Russia and Japan. Young love! Growing pains! Grandfathers who nickname! Also, the Hasetsu women get to be fangirls (again). It's mostly pure fluff and rainbows, but it's 2017, and I want the boys to have the families they deserve.





	Quartet: Border Crossings

**Author's Note:**

> \- zhanym: Kazakh, жаным, "my soul". (from Aik Sawyer's ["Kazakhstan 101 or How to Otabek"](http://starkysnarks.tumblr.com/post/154282821426/kazakhstan-101-or-how-to-otabek))  
> \- Here Otabek is 170 (same as Seung-gil) and Yuri 173 cm (not as tall as the other Russians, but still 10 cm/~ 4" taller than his 15-year old self).  
> \- This is loosely connected to a get-together fic I wrote called [How'd You Like Them Apples](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11797836). You're welcome to read that for some context on how I present the relationship here, but this also works as a standalone.

**#almaty**

They took turns to visit, saving all the weekends they could afford during their training. This time it was Yuri's turn to fly into Almaty. The day before he left, they were walking down a quiet side street after lunch, heading towards Otabek's motorbike. A small tabby with blue eyes - a housecat out for a stroll, judging from its sleekness and friendly air - ambushed them en route. It wandered up to Yuri and purred vigorously, winding itself around his legs.

Otabek watched Yuri dissolve into what he'd heard Yuri describe, in others, as "fucking googly-eyed". He swept it up into his arms, heedless of potential fleas and dirt, cooing over it the way Otabek had seen Yuri's Angels fans do with his Instagram photos. It made a pretty tableau: slender blonde cuddling a tabby against his lion-head print T-shirt, his hair lit gold by the afternoon sun.

Speaking of pictures: Otabek dug out his phone and activated its camera. Yuri, in the middle of tickling his happy captive's chin, stopped and stared as the flash went off.

"I won't post it, if that's what you're worried about," Otabek told him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Just for my personal memories."

The cat mewled. Yuri struggled not to look pleased and a bit shy at being part of Otabek's private photo roll.

The next thing Otabek knew, he'd been yanked close, Yuri's own phone going up to capture all of them. *Click*, and there they were, on his screen: Yuri grinning from ear to ear, the cat pawing at Yuri's arm, Otabek expressionless.

"I thought you said you were tired of people teasing or sending you hate mail about us," Otabek remarked, while Yuri posted the shot with the English caption _Street cat and Kazakh guy_.

"Yeah. Anything I post with you in it automatically gets 100 times more likes, though." Yuri shrugged, quirking a corner of his mouth. "Fanservice, right?" He shot Otabek a cool glance, adding, "And fuck anyone who's got a problem with it."

Otabek raised a brow at him. "How about this, then?" He gave their surroundings a quick glance. And, confirming they were alone, casually pulled Yuri's face down for a kiss.

(Almost three years on from the beginning of their more-than-friendship, Otabek had grown a couple of centimeters, while Yuri's adolescent spurt had put him a few more above that. Otabek had felt fleetingly, inexplicably anxious that their reversed heights would render him unattractive in Yuri's eyes; Yuri had disarmed that concern by way of dramatic eyerolls and hands-on reassurance. Later he'd found out, from a very relaxed and sleepy Yuri, that the anxiety had been a two-way street, and he'd laughed, thinking, _we really are the same_.)

He wasn't in any hurry to end the kiss, which would almost certainly have induced a fatal nosebleed in any self-respecting Yuri's Angel.

The cat, pressed between them, yowled in protest. It wriggle-leaped out of Yuri's arms and settled on the sidewalk, waving its tail in manifest disapproval.

"Look what you've done," Yuri said accusingly, pushing him away. "I can't take selfies if you've parked your face on mine, moron." His cheeks had turned the colour of apple blossoms. Otabek, unrepentant, basked in a rain of lukewarm abuse.

  
**#saint petersburg**

It had been a hot day for Saint Petersburg, the unusual humidity persisting into the night. Yuri wiped the sweat off his face with a towel and concluded that it was a terrible evening. He'd sprained his ankle on a particularly bad landing while aiming to ratchet up his jump combinations for a routine. Obviously, until it healed, he wouldn't be able to do much. He'd be lucky if he healed quickly enough to take a medal in the next event scheduled. On top of that, he'd made both Lilia and Yakov completely exasperated (again) with him.

"You aren't 15 anymore," Lilia had snapped. "How many times must we remind you? Start acting your age, Yuri Plisetsky. Your body will thank you for it." She was worried, he knew; he could hear it under the harshness of her tone. Yakov had let her do all the scolding, confining himself to nodding darkly behind her.

_I know that_ , he thought resentfully. _I can't stretch as far and as easily anymore. I keep getting bigger and heavier; it affects how I can move, how much I can jump, how I land. I *know* that. Everyone knows this happens_. But he still couldn't quite bring himself to accept it. There were days at practice when he felt the loss of his old body's lightness and pliability like a wound. He wavered between pragmatism and humiliation, and ended up angry at himself, most of the time. On the one hand, he welcomed his new body's increasing strength and power; on the other, there was just so much...*more* of him to control. To try to control, and to fail more often than not in doing so. 

The other day Mila had sized him up and said, laughingly, looks like I can't lift you anymore, can I? Her playful remark had hit home: he really was different, now. He had to be.

His ankle throbbed, and the compression bandage over it itched. At times like these he wished intensely that Otabek wasn't five and a half hours away by plane. He wanted Otabek's warm silence beside him, the way he never asked or judged. How he just made space for whatever Yuri wanted to put down.

Since he couldn't have that for some months yet, he made a call when he got back from the hospital, remembering only after Otabek picked up that it was past midnight in Almaty.

"Yura?" Otabek's low voice was edged with sleep. Yuri felt a frisson of pleasure down his spine, hearing it say his name.

"Sorry to wake you up, Beka," he said. "Forgot the time. If you're tired, I'll call again tomorrow."

"It's fine. What's wrong?" Concern suffused every syllable. Yuri closed his eyes, picturing him in bed: dark hair tousled on the pillow, muscled arms extending from the singlet he usually wore to sleep. The first shadow of stubble on his strong jaw.

_I miss you_ , he thought, a sudden lump in his throat.

"Yura? You still there?"

He swallowed. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough with the effort of keeping feelings at bay. "Just feeling lousy. Sprained my fucking ankle at night practice and got a huge lecture from Lilia."

Otabek made a sympathetic noise on the other end. "That's bad. Sorry to hear that. I'm glad it wasn't any more serious, though."

"I hate being 18," Yuri burst out. "Growing old sucks *balls*."

Otabek chuckled, understanding. "It happens to all of us, zhanym." He seldom slipped into endearments; the word spread like a balm across Yuri's ruffled heart.

"How did *you* deal with this - you know, not being able to do what you used to anymore?"

"You grow into it. Find new ways to move. It isn't just your body that changes; you're becoming different on the inside, too. Give yourself time, Yura."

"You make it sound so damn easy," Yuri muttered rebelliously.

"You've won harder battles." Otabek said, calmly. "You'll fight your way through this, too." A pause. "And I'm here."

The lump in his throat returned. Yuri took a deep breath, forcing it down.

"It's only 3 more months till off-season." Otabek spoke into the fraught silence, very gently. "Rest well, Yura. Call or text me anytime."

He nodded, and then remembered he was on the phone. "Thanks, Beka." Putting everything he couldn't say into his name.

"And remember," added Otabek, "now you can drink when it gets really bad."

Yuri snorted, and listened to the answering smile on the other end.

  
**#moscow**

Aeroflot delivered them to Sheremetyevo only an hour late. They disembarked to meet an elderly man and his car, who Yuri scampered to greet with a joyous cry, adolescent swagger discarded the way he'd been known to divest himself of outerwear during a performance.

Otabek stood to one side, amusement blunting the edge of his nerves. Nikolai Plisetsky was a self-contained presence who reminded him of his own grandfather on his father's side, the one he'd been the first grandchild to. His gruff visage had melted into infinite tenderness around his grandson. Now he watched Nikolai do the same, returning the careful bear hug that Yuri enveloped him in. Large, wrinkled hands caressed Yuri's long back like he was the most precious of jewels. Otabek saw that his hair and beard, black-streaked grey in the photos Yuri had shown him, were now tinted with white.

Coming to Moscow had been Yuri's idea. A return for meeting Otabek's family, although he knew neither of them would have made meeting the other's family a condition for introducing their own. The Altin clan had, on the whole, been easy and welcoming; they'd never been strict with Otabek, in the first place, and he'd been living on his own for so long that they'd mostly ceased expecting him to follow any kind of standard life course. It certainly helped that his mother and sister were enthusiastic fans of Yuri's skating (although they had impressed upon him that the grandparents would be better off thinking of them as "friends" for the indefinite future).

Otabek had never spent time with a significant other's family before, and he wasn't entirely sure what the protocol was for older Russians, especially when said significant other was also male. It would help not to have a language barrier, but he wondered if he would be found lacking in some irrelevant way. His lower international ranking than Yuri's, possibly? Maybe his undercut? His own grandmother had disapproved of his undercut. Old people, no less than the young, could be unpredictable in what they objected to.

Yuri had provided no pointers, assuring him that he'd "laid the groundwork", whatever that meant, and that it was "totally cool", which was equally unhelpful. So he'd packed a bottle of Kazakh cognac to gift, a brand recommended by his father, and hoped for the best. On the flight over from Saint Petersburg he reviewed everything he knew about Yuri's most important relative. Purveyor of Russia's best pirozhki. Inventor of the Japanese-style pork cutlet bowl pirozhki. Infallible supplier of pirozhki before and after Yuri's events in Moscow.

Yuri never said much about his parents. Otabek, taking the hint, never asked, and didn't expect he would meet them any time soon. Nikolai was different.

He's everything to me, Yuri had once said, in a rare moment of perfect frankness. I did that short program about him. I wouldn't be here without him.

_No pressure at all,_ Otabek thought dryly. He composed himself and waited for Yuri to wave him forward. They were introduced with a flourish; Otabek voiced his best formal greetings, extending a cautious hand.

He wasn't prepared for Nikolai to grip it and pull him into a hug with surprising strength. Otabek awkwardly put his hands on the old man's hunched shoulders, which were clad in faded brown corduroy, and stared helplessly at Yuri. Who was smirking in a I-told-you-so way at him.

"Yurochka has told me so much about you," Nikolai's leathery face was creased in a broad smile. "Welcome, Otabek."

"He's only three years older than me!" Yuri cut in, still grinning infuriatingly. "Give him a familiar name!"

"He looks like he's more sensible than you," Nikolai said, ignoring Yuri's pout. "Bekashenka, isn't he a handful, this one?"

Otabek valiantly tried to process all of this. Yuri was in stitches.

"Your *face*, Beka. What, never had a Russian give you a nickname before?"

"He will get used to it," said Nikolai, serenely. "Let's go, boys."

There was a delicious-smelling paper bag inside the car. Otabek sat in the back seat, listening to Yuri's animated monologue, punctuated by his grandfather's occasional murmurs of response, and tucked into a warm parcel of pastry, oozing fluffy granules of short-grained rice studded with egg and crispy strips of fried pork. Japan, judging from everything he'd heard from Yuri about Katsuki Yuuri's home, was a nice place. He looked forward to trying the dish that had inspired this particular fusion food.

Yuri twisted round in his seat, proffering the bag with a crumb-flecked grin, turquoise eyes bright. "Want another?"

"Yes," said Otabek, curbing the desire to reach out and wipe the crumbs off. "Maybe two, if there's enough left. They're as good as you said, Yura."

Nikolai chuckled, obviously pleased. "Ask Yurochka to make them for you next time, Bekashenka. He knows how."

"But yours are better!" Yuri protested, scrunching up his face like a grumpy child. Otabek hid a laugh in a large bite of katsudon pirozhki.

  
**#hasetsu**

Hasetsu in the summer was a swamp of moist heat, filled with an endless chorus of cicadas. _Miiiiiin_ , _miiiiiiiin_ , _miiiiiiiiiin_ , they shrilled, along with a thousand other sounds he'd never heard in Russia, or anywhere else, for that matter. After a few days he'd resigned himself to being perpetually awash in sweat.

Yuri had done his hair up in a knot to air the back of his neck. Now he hitched up the sleeves of his yukata, fanning himself with the uchiwa Katsudon's mother had helpfully provided, and looked over at Otabek to see how he was doing.

Viktor had called from Japan, a month ago, asking him to join what was apparently going to be a week-long training camp at the Yu-topia inn. "Yuuri's idea," he'd said, happily. "We'll do some group workouts, maybe make a special show at the rink for the locals, bring in some business for the Katsukis. Oh, and have tons of fun, of course! Summer festivals! Beer! Watermelons! You'll come, won't you, Yurio?"

"*Don't* call me that," Yuri sighed. "Give me one reason why I should be involved with this stupid proposal, old man."

"Well, I already gave you several, Yurio, but I asked Otabek too, and he said yes! If you're also going, that is."

"WHAT," Yuri said, his temples beginning to throb. "I didn't hear anything about this!"

"Of course you didn't," Viktor chirped. "I *just* hung up with him! So it's all settled, then - I'll send you both details by next week!" The beep of a hangup and a dial tone followed.

Old men and their pigs and their damned schemes, Yuri thought darkly. But he couldn't really complain, especially when Viktor had cleared his trip with Yakov and Lilia.

It *was* nice to be in Hasetsu again. It had been more than a year since his last visit. He missed this place, even if he couldn't quite bring himself to admit it. He also knew Otabek had been interested in visiting for some time now, and he wasn't about to let that happen without him. He watched Otabek encounter Hasetsu with proud, possessive eyes; took pleasure in his enjoyment of its green-dappled coastal landscape, the salt-smell and seagull cries that permeated the town's daily life. The way Otabek's initial reserve before Viktor and the pig dimmed in the face of (what Yuri considered) their manifest lack of any claim to respectful distance.

Katsudon's family had welcomed them with open arms, as did the Nishigoris and Minako. They still managed to enjoy the hot springs despite the heat, exiting tingly and lobster-pink all over. They were plied with piping-hot bowls of katsudon, followed by deliciously chilled varieties of Japanese liquor, Takeshi and the elder Katsuki assiduously refilling everyone's and their own glasses. There was more than one raucous ending to a night, accompanied by the Nishigori triplets' photojournalism and an abundance of missing clothes in the morning.

Everyone exclaimed over how tall Yuri had grown, how his shoulders had broadened. Very manly, Takeshi assured him, slapping him on the back so hard Yuri almost choked on a bite of rice. ("But you're still beautiful, Yurio," Mari later declared, tossing back a gulp of saké straight from the bottle and blowing her nose. Otabek had nodded, making Viktor and Yuuri dissolve into chortles and catcalls, and Yuri into a frenzy of death glares and kicks.)

Yuuko's girls were also significantly bigger, but still apple-cheeked and sassy, still frighteningly savvy with social media. Yuri had given up keeping track of everything they saw fit to share with the internet about this "training camp". They and their mother were being unbearably giddy about the whole thing. Especially over Otabek, who they were meeting for the first time, and who appeared to be charming everyone with his quiet kindness and canny memorisation of basic Japanese phrases. Yuuko had pulled Yuri aside on the first day of their visit for the express purpose of informing him that he was a lucky boy, lobbing a volley of winks and meaningful nudges at him.

Yuri hadn't even been able to protest. It was true, after all. And, if he'd been pressed on the issue, he was grateful to them. For an understanding that required no explanations; for extending acceptance to him and Otabek, the way they'd accepted Viktor as part of Yuuri's life.

"Yura?" Otabek asked, breaking into his reverie. Yuri blinked, and looked down at him. Otabek nodded towards the rest of their party, who had left them some distance behind. "We should probably follow them."

They were all headed to a festival that night. A natsumatsuri, Katsudon had said, pronouncing each syllable carefully for their benefit. A traditional Japanese celebration of summer.

And so, his mother had added, you should all go in traditional clothes. They didn't actually have a choice: she, Yuuko, Mari and Minako had assembled a bewildering assortment of robes and cloth belts and straw-lined sandals, which the visitors had orders to change into. These are Japanese summer kimono, they were informed. They're called yukata. You wrap them, left over right, then tie them with these obi belts and wear the zouri sandals. Put the robe on over an undershirt, if you have one, and boxers, or whatever you do for bottoms. Don't worry, we'll help you wear them properly, *of course*. At which point, it didn't escape Yuri's notice, Katsudon, his father and Takeshi made themselves scarce.

Viktor had loved this, unsurprisingly, making cheerful inquiries about fabric and dye and colour symbolism while being dressed. Otabek, aggravatingly unruffled, had seemed to be taking all of this in his stride. Yuri, meanwhile, had almost suffocated with embarrassment. The women all cheerfully declared that Yuri had nothing they hadn't already seen before, which didn't help. Minako in particular had cackled, snapping a shot of his red-faced, disheveled self in an untied yukata. "Lilia's going to love this," she'd informed Yuri, who'd felt vaguely like throwing up, and who *definitely* didn't want to inquire into the details of when she'd become friends with Lilia. At least they'd barred the triplets from being there to witness every male person's various states of undress, although he couldn't be sure they hadn't secretly been filming everything through some peephole.

He had to admit, after everything was finally on and held together, that this getup was kind of nice. A comfortable kind of exotic. The women wore printed yukata; their wide obi, in vividly contrasting colours, were tied in large, elegant bows. The men had simpler variations on this theme: their robes solid-hued, the subtler contrasts of their narrow belts knotted lower on their hips.

It wasn't Yuri's style at all, but he rather liked it, the way the wrap and folds of light cotton draped the lines of his body. He'd been assigned a yukata the colour of pale sand, paired with an obi patterned in brown and green. Katsudon and Viktor, walking ahead, were wearing navy and smoke-blue yukata under pale grey and black obi.

Otabek was in a deep khaki green, bound with mustard yellow. Yuri sized him up, approvingly. "You look good," he said.

"So do you," Otabek replied, and smiled.

The street was lined on both sides with food and drink stalls. They ate their way through a smorgasbord of beer and watery highballs and fried noodles and grilled squid and candy apples; dipped for tiny, brightly-tinted fish and shot air guns for kitschy prizes; were commandeered into joining a communal dance around a raised stage that held a set of barrel-like drums and their bare-armed drummers.

Drumbeats rang through the night, accompanied by rhythmic claps, and accented by the clear vibratos of folk singers. Otabek, reaching back during a particular movement in the dance, seized the opportunity to catch hold of his hand. Yuri squeezed back, aware that they were both grinning like idiots.

_You only live once_ , he thought. It occurred to him that this moment was a small kind of miracle, that there was so much happiness in making these histories.

"Ahem," Yuuri coughed, delicately. "Not to interrupt, guys, but we should go get a good spot to see the fireworks."

The ocean sent up cool, saline spray and a welcome breeze. They watched flowers and showers of crimson and gold and green unfurl in the air, raining down to earth amidst the excited squeals of local children. He saw Viktor sneak an arm around Katsudon's waist, who let him.

Yuri kept his hand in Otabek's, watching the light of the colourful explosions overhead dance across his face.

Home, he knew, was in many places.

 


End file.
